Sea of Trees
by frooit
Summary: Cloud grew up miles away from the second most popular place in the world to take your life. The first is the Golden Gate bridge, if you wanted to know. (modern-setting au/one-shot/suicide attempt)
**sea of trees** _by frooit_

 _modern-setting ffvii au/one-shot/gen_

 _Notes:_ This is in **no way** meant to **trivialize** the suicides that have taken place at Aokigahara, or suicide in general. _This is just a silly story._ Suicide is not good, kids. It's not fun. It's not an answer. It's permanent. It's brutal. It's avoidable. I can sympathize. Many can. This might be just another warning sign along the path you're walking, but. Stop. Don't rush off into the woods alone. Here's a phone number. 1 (800) 273-8255. Have a conversation, find a future, and keep walking that path.

I've never been to Japan. I've never seen Aokigahara. I'd sure like to, just to say I have, but all of this came from many minutes of research. Thanks to the internet, once again, for being total shit, but also awesome, because you have been known to make my life easier, and entertaining. Mostly. Uh. Thanks for reading!

Musical influence (or, the tune Cloud might have been listening to): Heaven by i monster

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There is a (potentially, theorized) haunted forest at the northwest base of Mt. Fuji, bordered by the Misaka mountains and lore, called Aokigahara. It's located in the Yamanashi prefecture, 100 miles west of Tokyo, and not very big, by all accounts. It's fourteen square miles of dense trees that have overgrown past lava flows. It's rocky and jagged. It's cramped and uncanny.

That's it on a map. That's it by characteristics. He knows the unhappy history too. How could he not? Cloud grew up miles away from the second most popular place in the world to take your life. The first is the Golden Gate bridge, if you wanted to know.

This forest though, still just a forest, is such an infamous place for the act that it's been dubbed the Suicide Forest. In recent years, authorities even stopped publicizing the actual numbers to cool the buzz. It's absolutely steeped in you-guessed-it, and ghost stories, and rituals that span centuries back (some savory, and some not), and lately, it's been on his mind. It's creeping in and offering an option, and he's not been quick to refuse or dispute it.

If he didn't say a word and dropped work now, leaving this parcel and document tube he's running undelivered, he could catch a bus and be to Lake Sai, and the beginning of the walking trail, in less than an hour. It's in his backyard. He would arrive around dusk.

The perfect time to end it all.

Cloud has never been an ambitious person. He would be more easily defined as an underachiever, an introvert, or a slacker. He's never been motivated to improve or reach higher. Not like everyone else around him seems to be. No family, no car, no career. He finds people too much to handle. Groups are near impossible. Little tasks, like getting out of bed, bathing, and dressing, shouldn't be a daily victory. He doesn't have a pet or a close friend. He needs a cell phone for work, but it hardly gets use. He's afraid of commitment and long conversation. He's been alone: keeping his heart in. He's been a coward: keeping his head down.

It should be a bonus then that his job is monotonous. He delivers mail and anything else waiting for him in that little white office down the road. No surprises. No thinking. No problems. Little human interaction. It was tailor made for him. He gets a paycheck in time to pay rent, and almost has enough left over for amenities and other expenses.

It could be worse. He could be jobless. He's not bumming around on the streets, or in the thick of a bad crowd. He's not hungry most nights, or too cold. He barely survived high school, but he got this far on his own, didn't he? So, what's all the fuss?

No matter how he looks at it, and no matter how he comes to it, from right or left, light or dark, he's still just a bicycle carrier, and he's still had suicide on his mind since before his mother died.

That was two years ago, exactly two days after his twentieth birthday. It might as well be yesterday. It's been forever and yet moments in his mind. It's crystallized. He can't go a day without its stinging memory. He has become nothing but a vessel careening towards inevitable blackout, waiting for the gumption to hasten it to next week, tomorrow, today.

He's never been to the forest. He was told about it by his mother. She explained it all. She had gone when she was a child and always wanted to return.

He doesn't know it yet, but he's running through the motions and going through the paces, taking it day-to-day until _the_ day. There's no room for hesitation or second thoughts if he's not even registering that he's looking up departure times for transit, or planning to dip into grocery money for bus fare, or putting aside a pair of socks, slacks, and a shirt that he won't have to worry about washing before then, because he wants to die in clean clothes.

He's subconsciously readying to call it quits. Just like she did.

Maybe it's genetics.

It's all a distant daze, and yet it's the closest thing in years he could call real purpose. The whole nasty thing is giving him a diffused level of focus and a hint of drive. And, at the same time, he's not even having to get too close or cozy to the idea. He's on autopilot and won't allow himself the satisfaction of the knowledge of impending doom, or the chance to puss out.

He feigns a cough over that cell phone to work a week later, and, with help from his clean attendance record, they give him the day to do with as he will. Without much commotion, he collects his already waiting things, buys his ticket, and starts his trip. His final trip.

Just like that.

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He finds himself surrounded by a silent and suffocating wall of woods not long after. The fabled forest is so thick and hanging there is no sun above for a beacon. If he didn't already know it was late morning, he wouldn't have had a clue. The whole place seems to glow from within, concealing, almost appealing. It sucks up all light and sound. And yet, it's still beautiful in its odd desolation. It lives and grows, free and wild, all too dangerous, and indifferent to the outside.

He came early to buffer his odds, and he made sure to look as athletic as possible to defer any questions or lingering looks. He brought a backpack and his newest shoes and a pair of earbuds he got second hand from work. He hadn't wanted to be stopped based off of his obvious profile before even getting inside. No chance for someone's concerned face to rip the rug right out from underneath him and dethrone his glorious hopes of permanent relief.

It's after breakfast. He hasn't even had a sip of coffee, or tea, or a bite to eat yet. He forgot to bring that. Or, maybe he didn't. He's not going to need it soon. He won't need much of anything.

He got here after climbing off the bus, crossing the street, and entering the trail. He walked the first several minutes of the leafy path feeling uneasy and badly ignoring the few people already touring, and talking, and marveling. He didn't read the many signs of warning posted along the way (the pleas to rethink and remember), he only moved deeper and deeper.

He passed every effort to discourage his roiling and rumbling demons. He passed every potential spectator, and the remnants of those who already ignored those wailing do-gooders, now just monuments of torn clothing, wallets, shoes, and scattered camping gear. He stayed true until he found what he was looking for, and there, with the forest well and truly lonely, he meandered, breaking from the existing trail to step into the unknown.

Any hikers that trek the area are sure to mark their path with tape so they don't get lost. And that's an easy thing to do here. That's the whole point of this forest though, isn't it? It's for the forgotten, abandoned, and unwanted. The trees shoot up and spread, packed in close like bamboo but taller, more varied and soundless. There are no insects. There is hardly ever a breeze. Air does not play here, it gets trapped. Along with memories, and feelings, and terrible deeds. He saw no tape beyond the point he entered, or any more signs of caution and fear for his eternal soul. Just like in life, the encouragement always dies out the deeper down you go.

He brought rope (coils of unused paracord) and hid it in his backpack. He had the cord left over after a rock climbing kick that never went anywhere. Memories of old clarity and conviction now dust. He couldn't forget that important item. He never liked the idea of drugs, or exsanguination, or sudden impact, so hanging was his last option. How glamourous.

He wound up a lush ridge, mounted the volcanic rise, and parted the wildly-rooted trees. He slipped and slid on his way up that ridge, moss and wet roots making the going slower, but, after a time (after more movement than thought), he made it far from the public trail and disruption, and stopped as he came to the realization, and a discovery.

A wide and sturdy tree waited for him. It was tall and prominent, but most notably, it sported the right branch just low enough for him to reach and toss his rope over.

He found a good spot. And he's been standing there, in that good spot, under that perfect tree, for the last fifteen minutes, listening to nothing, feeling little, eyeing the waiting rope in his hands, and slowly processing. It's just him, the wall of woods, and his selfish intentions.

 _Sorry, mom._

He lets the rope dangle to don his earbuds. He's cueing up his phone with his music. He collects the rope again and slips the makeshift noose he already made around his throat, dropping his arms to his sides. The rope is not tight or heavy along his collarbone, but it's also a hefty weight, and a presence, and a promise. It'll all be over soon, or just beginning, assuming he steps from this slippery root and right out over that rocky slope. And into oblivion.

He listens to his sad tunes play, rising and falling; alluring and assuring. He looks down that slope, taking it in. It's steep, and jagged, and permanent. He thinks on his mother. Her toil and terrors. He thinks on his routine, and his hiding, and his own wear and tire, and then the tears come. It's usually without his say, but not this day. He's looking for ammo and proof.

He comes here often, to this dark place in his head. He tells himself truths and lies, and digs and digs. This is him, his voice, his constant company, but it's also always felt like an imposter in so many ways. A stranger. A defect. _I hate you, I can't stand you, you disappoint me, you're a waste, you're a fool,_ the voice tells him.

So much is out of his hands. He can't control himself. He can't control anything. He can't see a future. He can't see tomorrow. He doesn't want to see _today_.

The tears flow, dribble and fall. He's afraid. He's terrified. He knows. He understands. He's going to make a choice, take control, and stop it. He's filled with everything and nothing, and too much gangrenous, filthy, ugly anger, and shame. He is loneliness and emptiness. He should have helped her. He should have tried harder. He can't see going on. Not like this.

Through the hot rush, the choke and gasp, he looks up. He looks to the sky, to the heavens, to the treetops— _someone help me, anyone, please. Please, help me._

Hesees only the diffused light, and the stretching branches, and the colourful rope tied to one of them, and the excess looping down—down to _him_. And he waits. He waits for the answer.

He doesn't give it long. He doesn't get one. He swallows and weeps, and turns away, dejected and unheard. There is no ethereal mercy. No hope. No parting of the skies. This is all his burden. The unforgiving tears stream and sting. He's not strong enough. He's not brave enough. He can't carry this. He's being crushed. Give him relief. Give him peace.

Through it all, the blinking snaps and watery flicks of his heavy eyelids and fanning eyelashes, he sees something else in the dimness, and the hanging mosses, and roots, and branches. Something odd. He glances and leans, and there it is, right on the smooth trunk of his killing tree, almost at eye level, and completely out of place. He hadn't spotted it before. He hadn't really looked. He rubs his eyes and peers now.

His melancholy song ends.

A new one takes its place.

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The _something_ is a carving.

A name. And a series of numbers.

A _phone_ number.

Before he knows what he's doing, he's pulling the earbuds out, and his phone, and jabbing at the display. Every press is a click, a vibration, a sequence coming ever closer to conclusion. He trembles and shakes, but he manages, lifting the phone at last to his ear to meet dialtone. He wipes at the ooze draining from his nose. He blinks at the droplets sticking to his lashes.

It rings and rings.

He's not sure what he plans on saying, or doing, or admitting. He should hang up. But then, he has no say, the call connects, someone's speaking up, and his puffy eyes rapidly blink.

"This is Zack," a male voice answers, matching the name on the tree.

Cloud lowers the phone and disconnects.

Only moments later, tears really rolling now, pulse thumping now, breath puffing now, the damn phone vibrates in his hand. He glares down at it, accusatory. The bright screen shows him the number he just dialed. Before he can do anything though, the signal is lost, or the person has a change of heart, and the message blinks away. The screen darkens.

Feeling all the more ready to take the plunge, Cloud makes to pocket the phone and proceed. Before he can, the phone vibrates anew, showing him the same numerical sequence.

He waits and he sniffs. He has nothing to lose.

He answers the call.

"I'm sorry," he grits out.

"Hello? Who is this?" the same voice asks.

Cloud inhales a hitching breath and says naught.

"What do you want?"

Breath restrained, he doesn't answer.

"Is this a joke?"

A badly contained gasp escapes.

"Whoa, whoa… Are you messing with me?"

Cloud slaps a hand over his mouth, blocking the next outburst.

" _Hey_ , is this a fucking joke? I don't take kindly to bad jokes."

There's background noise on the other end: several voices and interference.

" _Hello_?" the voice presses.

Cloud drops the hand and takes another hitching breath. "I…" he musters.

"Are you... _crying_?" the voice asks. "Hold on a sec. My bad. Don't hang up."

The background noise rises and then falls. Only the crackling of their connection remains.

Cloud entertains the idea of disobeying the request, but the voice is back.

"Are you okay? Where are you?"

Cloud's jaw drops to say, "The..."

He doesn't get far.

" _The_ … Uh-huh? Was there more to that?" There's a short pause. "What's your name?"

"My…" Cloud offers, hitching and gasping through it. "My name…"

"Mine's Zack, like I said," the voice cuts in, alleviating the obvious difficulty and physical reservations. "If that helps. I don't usually answer numbers I don't know… I was about to ignore it. Glad I didn't. You don't sound too happy. How did you get this number? I—"

"It was," Cloud overrides. " _Carved_ into… a… a _tree_..."

"What? A... tree?" There's a longer pause, and then: "Oh," Zack breathes." _Shit."_

That could be an epiphany.

Cloud's face twists. His empty guts jump. He wants to hang up. He's seconds from the motion.

"Hey, hey. Whoa. Okay. Don't hang up," Zack demands, as if reading his mind. "Shit, shit, shit…" he chants. "Um. Okay. Just stay on the line. Everything's cool, man."

"Sure," Cloud responds, defying himself, surprising himself.

"You've gotta be kidding me…" Zack mumbles, but he doesn't quiet or fade. "I'm kinda shocked you're getting signal there… It _is_ the forest, isn't it? Aokigahara? Right? I was there, like... a _month_ ago. Had some time before shipping out and was kicking around… I, uh... volunteered for one of those annual... body searches they do. It was… kinda on a whim, ya know. I never got signal there. Realized just how dumb of an idea it was after..."

No signal? Right. Cloud hadn't thought of that. "It's working… for _me_..." he mutters.

"Yeah, it is," Zack answers. "Now I know _where_ you are, but... you haven't told me _why_ you are. And you _still_ haven't told me your name. So... what's up? Why are you crying? "

"It's…" Cloud starts, thick and gooey.

He's cut off by Zack barking out, "Fuck off, Reno! This is _important._ "

Cloud winces and listens, chewing his lip, blinking away the remnant tears.

"Seriously, man. _Get out_ ," Zack growls. To Cloud now, soft and cool, he says, "Sorry about that. Some people don't believe in privacy… Not exactly on my own time here..."

Cloud lets the silence expand, holding his breath, gripping the phone.

"Are you there?" Zack asks, voice exhibiting concern. " _Hey._ "

"I'm here," Cloud whispers, shrugging his aching shoulders loose.

"Whatever you're planning… just _stop_. Okay? Stop right there. Don't do it. Think about it."

Cloud feels exposed, found out. He's angry and ashamed all at once. He moves to hang up for real this time, his hand moving the phone away from his face and ear, his finger seconds away from tapping that red box and making it so, but. He hears Zack rambling on the other end, crackling and constant, and then he relaxes. He likes his voice. He likes his tone.

He presses the phone back to his ear, rope still tied to that branch, noose still looped over his bare throat, and he gives Zack another shot. He deserves that much for picking up.

"...and think about all the things you won't be able to do, man. Come on. All the shit you'll miss out on. Like that new movie coming out. And that thing you've always wanted. And no more hamburgers. Or sushi. Or whatever you dig. Think about all the people who will miss you."

"I don't… _do_ anything," Cloud sniffs. "And no one will miss me."

"Bullshit," Zack barks. " _I'll_ miss you."

" _Why?_ " Cloud scoffs. "You don't... even... _know_ me."

"I'll _remember_ you. Because... I'm such... an _awesome_ and _sensitive_ guy like that. I'll remember that... we had this conversation. I'll remember you struggling. And in pain. And when you ever get around to telling me your _name_ , I'll remember _that_ too. I'll miss getting to know you, and helping you, and listening to you, and _especially_ telling you why you're wrong."

"I'm wrong?"

"You're trying to kill yourself, dude. _Of course_ you're wrong."

"I'm just… _exhausted_ ," Cloud explains, rubbing his free hand over his wet eyes.

"Then take a break."

"I'm _trying_ to."

"That's not what I _mean_ , you—" Zack growls, stopping himself before the probable knee-jerk insult. "I've _seen_ what happens there, man. I've... helped clean up. In the interest of helping _you_... We came across... a girl. Her rope was too short… Her eyes... they _bulged_ out of her damn _head_ , man. There's nothing beautiful about dying there. There's very little beautiful about _dying_ in general… I should know. You need to get away from the everyday grind. Take a vacation. Look at the world through a different perspective. Read a book. Pick up a bad habit. Go to church."

"I don't... want to go to church…"

"Yeah, well. I can't really blame you there. Except, Japanese temples are _way_ cooler than western churches any fucking day. I couldn't get enough of 'em when I was there. Oddly enough, they don't like my smoking..."

Cloud snorts.

"Was that a laugh?"

"No."

"You're not crying anymore…"

"Why did you call back?" Cloud asks, tone clipped and inches from annoyance.

"I think the better question is: why did _you_ call _me_?"

Cloud looks up and around his stage, trying to find something to help his cause. There's the woods and the rope. There's what he thought would deliver him. He pulls on that cord and the knot stays firm. He rolls his neck and feels the drag, the presence, the slack around his nape.

"To… tell you... my name," Cloud answers, voice restricted but clearing.

"Okay…" Zack responds, giving him the space to finish.

"It's… My name is," he stutters and swallows, not meaning to add the dramatic effect. " _Cloud_."

"I like that. Light and airy," Zack notes, speaking smoothly. He takes a breath. "Okay, Cloud. You're cool for now, right? You're solid? This is shitty timing. I've gotta run. Like, literally. We're running around the compound all weekend."

"I'm… cool," Cloud confirms.

"Yeah, I totally get that. You're talking now. Kind of. So maybe you are... Get out of there though. Don't stand around. Head back. I want you to call me as soon as you get home. How long will it take you? I'll call two minutes after, and keep calling if you don't pick up. I'll call the authorities. I'll call the news. I'll call _everyone_. I'll do it all while I'm doing bullshit drills. So you better make it safe."

Cloud blinks. He feels no more emptiness. No more dread. No more fear. He feels awe, confusion, and… His chest isn't nearly as heavy. He's standing alone in the suicide woods with his ratty backpack, and his depressing playlist, and his drying tears, and a rope around his neck. He is alone, but for the voice on the other end of his like-new cell phone.

"Sure," he answers.

"Don't give me a _sure_. I want a _yessir_ ," Zack orders.

Cloud snorts again: half a surprised laugh, half a dismissal gasp. " _Yessir_ ," he repeats.

"Call me," Zack demands. "In an hour."

"I will."

"You better."

And they leave it at that.

After repeating it thrice.

Cloud saves Zack's number (his second or third contact) and finally pockets the phone. He makes sure to take his rope with him. No one else is going to come along and try what he did. Not with his help anyway. That's for sure.

He uneasily unwinds it (his knot was pretty spot on) and wraps it up, hiding it back inside his pack. Fortunately, he finds the main trail without any trouble and retraces it, quietly, calmly (and maybe even enjoying it a little bit too), and leaves the forest. His mother's forest. He waits for a bus and heads right home, as if all he meant to do that day was have a little stroll.

He's still on that bus when his phone vibrates. He starts and grabs for it from his pocket.

"Zack?" he offers.

"Cloud," the familiar voice replies. It's a statement, a greeting, a friendly return. "I know I told _you_ to call _me_ … but I couldn't wait any longer, and I have a few minutes. I'm not very patient. Couldn't stop thinking about you... Had to hear your voice. Make sure you made it. And all that. Anyone ever tell you that you have a nice..."

Cloud holds the phone to his ear and listens.

Home is just down that road and the impending future already sounds like this voice.

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End file.
